


The Christmas Party Hop

by Edwardina



Category: Glee
Genre: Best Friends, Christmas, Friendship, Gen, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-12
Updated: 2012-12-12
Packaged: 2017-11-22 03:07:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/605152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edwardina/pseuds/Edwardina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A high-strung Blaine makes Sam accompany him to his parents' annual holiday party... and wear a bow tie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Christmas Party Hop

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Kate for looking this over and giving me her thoughts! Sweet Blam angel. Title from "Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree."

"Okay – no. No, remember, up and under... wrong side. No, under. Under, Sam. The _other way_ , Sam –"

"Would you calm down?"

"I'm... I'm calm. Okay? You're just doing it backwards."

Sam tapped out, dropping the ends of the bow tie. It crumpled around his neck, defeated.

"Look, I know you're stressed, or whatever, but you're the one who wants me to wear a bow tie. You might as well do it for me."

"No, you really should learn how to tie a bow tie once and for all," Blaine told him. He'd repeated this fact several times in the past half-hour, pointing out all the times the New Directions men had worn bow ties for competitions. He reached up and tugged his neat, even bow free again. "It's not hard, c'mon. From the top."

Sam let out an audible huff of frustration. "Dude, this is, like, the twentieth time I've tried! I'm on the third bow tie. Three strikes, I'm out! Don't you think you could just...?"

Blaine glanced at the two limp, wrinkled bow ties Sam had managed to crush the starched life out of by tying and tying and tying them again, each time in a configuration that was increasingly puzzled. Blaine had picked out the red and green plaid one especially for him, but it needed to be pressed again, and so did the burgundy satin that was the second one they'd tried. They just looked bedraggled, hanging over the side of Blaine's bed.

"Okay," Blaine relented. "You're right. This is my party. Or, you know. My parents' party. And they're my bow ties. Here, let's... find another."

He pulled the blue and red checkered tie from around Sam's neck, sliding it from under the collar of his plain white dress shirt, and tossed it to lie with its brethren. To his merit, Sam straightened his collar and stood up straight, steeling himself for another round as Blaine took another look at his collection.

"Well, it's not very Christmassy, but how about this? Royal blue?" he asked, lifting one end so Sam could see it.

"You don't have any that are just, like, black?"

"I do," countered Blaine, "but if you wear a black one, you might be mistaken for the help and have to carry around platters of shrimp. People will hand you empty champagne flutes without thinking twice."

Sam laughed, but Blaine was serious as he looped the bow tie around Sam's neck, sliding it under his collar attentively.

"I could've just worn my dad's light-up tie that plays 'Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer,'" Sam said. "No one would mistake me for a waiter then."

"That's definitely true..." Blaine squinted and stepped to the side, trying to remember how to tie a bow tie from the other side, but flipping the direction of things in his mind was proving difficult just then.

He didn't know why he was so agitated – he usually enjoyed his family's annual holiday affair, and in years past had happily played the piano and lead party-goers in a few Christmas songs after making the rounds. But of course, he also had to talk a lot about Cooper and make pleasant conversation with people three times his age that he only ever socialized with at these holiday parties. There was a lot of recounting of his classes and grades at Dalton and the victories and losses of his various teams. When he'd transferred to McKinley last year, at least he'd been part of a show choir en route to Nationals, even if he didn't have Dalton's prestige or rigorous academics or long-standing traditions to stand on, but with New Directions dropping out of the running so fast this year, he didn't have anything except a messy break-up to show for his senior year and was really dreading all the small talk.

He shook his head as he realized his mind was veering off-track.

"I'm not used to tying these from the front," he said, and gave Sam's shoulders a friendly thump. "You're too tall for me to reach around from behind. Get on your knees, would you? Please, Sam. Thanks."

After a reluctant exhale, Sam knelt onto one knee, then settled onto both, staring up at Blaine in the mirror and lifting both hands in a little gesture of readiness.

"Great," Blaine muttered – positive reinforcement – as he stepped behind Sam and took the sides of the blue bow tie like a set of reins, slipping immediately into muscle memory as he crossed the ends, going through the familiar motions. Up, under, double up, loop. Sam blinked patiently, watching in the mirror as the bow formed in Blaine's capable fingers.

Blaine didn't know what it was, but Sam looked three hundred percent better dressed up; the bow tie was like a miracle on him. It wasn't that he looked bad in his cheap suit and button-down alone, and it wasn't like a (non-light-up) tie wouldn't have helped his case, but the simple upgrade to a bow tie added the bit of polish Sam needed to not stick out in this crowd like a sore thumb. He was plenty handsome and the bow tie just managed to show it off, framing him differently somehow, and his general good looks then canceled out the fact that he wasn't wearing expensive or tailored clothes.

It was vain and petty, Blaine knew, to not want to be judged by the only company he'd invited to this year's festivities – but he also didn't want Sam to feel underdressed. Actually, he didn't think Sam cared about that kind of thing. But the Dalton boys making an appearance with their parents definitely cared, and he wanted Sam to make a stellar impression on his parents. So he cared quite a lot.

"Why does this have to be so complicated?" Sam asked as Blaine stared, concentrating, at his bow in careful progress.

"It's really not. Not any more than tying your shoes," Blaine answered. "You just have to learn the steps. Then when you master it, it doesn't seem complicated anymore."

Sam sighed.

"Hey!" came a voice from the door. Blaine barely managed to keep hold of the tie as Sam's head turned in response. He looked, too, even though he knew, of course, it was Cooper; knocking was beyond him. And sure enough, Cooper was pointing at Sam in greeting, smiling widely, then jabbing his finger in Blaine's direction. Music and chatter from downstairs flowed through the suddenly open door, reminding Blaine of just how crowded it was downstairs. "Hope I'm not interrupting whatever's going on in here, but our beloved parents are wondering if you're going to make an appearance. Seems a couple of people have asked about you."

Annoyingly, Cooper's collar was light-heartedly unbuttoned, and he managed to look red-carpet ready, or like he could slide onto a Vespa right then and there. If Blaine unbuttoned three of the buttons on his shirt he'd just look slobby, and maybe drunk.

"Yes, of course I'm coming down," Blaine answered, somewhat irritated. "We'll be there in a second. I'm just helping with this bow tie."

"Ah-hah," said Cooper, as if this was somehow a likely story and Blaine wasn't three-quarters of the way through the bow. "Well. Okay. See you down there, little brother. Little brother's... blond friend."

"Close the door!" Blaine called after him, but Cooper didn't hear.

"Don't worry about it," Sam said, and it had the effect of kicking Blaine back into gear. "We'll get this thing tied, go grab some punch, and face the music."

"Thanks for coming, Sam," Blaine said, combating the gloom that really wanted to bubble up at the idea of exchanging insults barely disguised as pleasantries with Hunter Clarington, Sectionals Victor. "I really didn't want to go it alone this year. I just know they're going to ask me about Kurt..."

"Hey," Sam said, "we won't give 'em the chance. If you want to, hand the conversation over to me. If we turn it around and change the subject to them, they'll probably talk their heads off. Then all you have to do is nod."

Blaine stared at Sam's unconcerned face. He always seemed to have the right idea about people, and Sam didn't have to actually know any of his parents' friends to be right about that. Self-involved was one word to describe much of the guest list.

"You're right," he said, and after adjusting one side of Sam's bow tie a bit, he gave Sam's shoulders a light squeeze, indicating he was all done. "You're totally right. I can steer the conversations. No problem. I just have to speak like I have all the confidence in the world, like I did when I was still at Dalton."

"Confidence is key," agreed Sam, putting Blaine momentarily on edge as he stuck two fingers under the bow tie and seemed to work it a little looser. It held up under the few seconds of strain, and Sam huffed and lumbered back onto his feet, reaching for the jacket he'd ditched and Blaine had hung on a knob on the nearby dresser. "Remember who you are! National champ. You're on the Cheerios now and they're national champs, too, for like, a million years running. Senior class president. You joined almost every club at McKinley and run half of them. And hey. There's always liquid courage, am I right?"

"A little bit, yeah," admitted Blaine. The egg nog was always pretty potent, but the idea of being buzzed just kind of reminded him of Scandals and Kurt and Sebastian. It was last year – it seemed like just yesterday, but also years ago, somehow, his previous lifetime that had ended when Kurt had left for New York – but he'd learned the lesson well that one beer could completely remove his innate sense of decorum. He tried to focus on all the positives Sam had mentioned. It was difficult somehow, even with Sam bolstering him so he wouldn't spring a leak.

"Okay, so how do I look?" asked Sam, buttoning his jacket. "Do I pass your inspection? And don't say 'a little bit' or anything like that. This is pass or fail."

Blaine took a second to look him over. Shoes: shined. Socks: dress. Shirt: tucked all the way in, all around. Bow tie: perfectly straight, against all odds. Face: no help required; Sam was blessed with wide, clear eyes and a charming smile which, when it became a grin, could win over just about anybody. His blond hair was All-American. It was just a little bit messy.

"Would you be willing to gel your hair –"

"Dude."

"Just this once!"

"I'm already wearing a bow tie!"

"It would look so good on you," Blaine tried. "You'd look like a Ken doll. One of those expensive collector ones that looks so perfect people just leave it in the box forever to preserve the pristine hair and clothes."

"Do you have a Barbie collection?" Sam asked suspiciously.

"Please let me gel your hair. Sam. Please. We're friends, right?"

Sam's lips pressed together; even though the expression was put-out, Blaine could tell Sam was giving it an ounce of consideration.

"No one from McKinley's here," Blaine told him.

"You said some of the Warblers would be here," said Sam doubtfully.

"They won't even recognize you if you slick your hair back," Blaine said, groping around for something Sam would go for. "It's so secret agent, Sam. You'll be like 007 out there. And yes, you can do your Sean Connery impression."

There was a lengthy pause.

Mollified, Sam said quietly, "Okay. But I can put my own gel in. You don't have to do that for me."

"Oh my God, thank you," said Blaine, and practically ran to his bathroom to get his comb and hair gel before Sam could change his mind.

Ten minutes later, Blaine and an extremely smart-looking Sam descended the staircase into air thick with the scent of many different colognes, savory hors d'ouvres, fresh pine trimmings, ciders both hot and sparkling, and cigar smoke that had settled into clothes from Blaine's father's library. There were some cheery shouts of greeting and recognition, and Blaine shook at least five hands before he managed to introduce Sam, who had to pull his hand out of his pocket to shake all those hands in return.

It was worth it, Blaine realized, a hunky-dory smile pasted on as he watched Sam firm up his shake and give an odd little salute to one of the ladies. Now that his hair wasn't hanging over his forehead, he looked respectable – like he could don a Dalton blazer and blend right into the group. His hair was a little long in back, but it somehow only served to make him look relaxed and approachable, old-school preppy and remarkably handsome.

The house was stuffed to the brim with guests, tables of food, weaving waiters, and speakers playing the Boston Pops at the perfect volume. The party was in full swing and there were a bunch of Warblers hanging out by the punch bowl in the foyer for the free booze, enjoying the blind eye everyone was turning. Blaine navigated them away from the Warblers and through the crowd in the foyer and living room, where they paused every few heads to greet and introduce and shake and confirm that Blaine was still at McKinley, and Sam also attended McKinley.

To Blaine's utter shock, no one asked about Kurt, even though Kurt had been at his side at this event last year and they had courageously made it plain that they were dating. _This is my boyfriend, Kurt. Oh, actually, we met at Dalton. Yes, we were both Warblers, but we really wanted a chance at Nationals, and New Directions is the group that will get us there._ It had been easier to be brave with Kurt by his side, holding his hand and laughing at his jokes. Kurt could turn on the charm like nobody's business; his manners were impeccable. He played off everything awkward before it could linger, with wit in spades. He'd relished the opportunity to wear a lovely suit and fill out the details as only he could: brooch, pocket square, snappy tie with tiny glittering beads sewn on just far enough apart to be fashion-forward and attention-grabbing instead of tacky. They'd taken each other's elbows in turn, discreet but proud.

In comparison, Sam was horrifyingly awkward, allowing himself to be dragged through the sea of people from this committee or that board or one club or another... people from his parents' past who knew Blaine when he'd been little... people who were old now... people from Cooper's agency... their lawyers, doctors, dentists. But he shook every hand, smiled on cue, gave simple responses, and filled that awkward, painful empty space next to Blaine dutifully.

It took them forty-five minutes just to get through the living room, and they were moving quicker than Blaine had ever managed to on his own.

"Almost done," Blaine told Sam as they paused next to the library door. He didn't blame Sam for looking slightly tired and bored.

"Almost?"

"Well, the library... and my mother's Rotary Club usually have drinks in the dining room. They're easy, though. They just kind of want to pinch your cheeks and ask if you've grown any since the last time they saw you." Blaine added under his breath, "And my answer's always 'no'. But you're pretty tall, so they'll probably go nuts for you."

"Does 'rotary' have something to do with height?" Sam asked.

Blaine tried not to laugh. Instead, he reached out to adjust Sam's bow tie, which was starting to lean a little to the left.

"No. They just like handsome young men."

The face Sam made came off confused, but by the scrunch of his halted smile, Blaine could tell that somewhere in there, Sam was flattered by the statement and wasn't sure how to react to it.

"We'll get punch, we'll do the library, and then we'll hit the Rotary Club," proposed Blaine. There wasn't anything crooked about Sam's jacket, but he grasped over its sleeves briefly anyway, giving them a little pull. He sort of wished someone was his count man, making sure he was on-point, too; Kurt would've. It was comforting just to think he'd done everything he could to make his company suitable, though.

"What about the Warblers?" Sam said pointedly, eying his sleeves.

"I... I see them all the time, so... I don't really have to greet them... do I?"

"Up to you," said Sam. He cocked a brow. "What about the food?"

"After Rotary Club," promised Blaine. "We'll be done shaking hands by then."

"How's my handshake?" Sam wanted to know.

"Perfect," Blaine assured him. "Self-assured, but relaxed..." He groped for Sam's hand and gave it a squeeze. "Dry. Good! You're doing great."

"None of these people are ever going to see me again, let alone remember me."

"You never know," said Blaine, although he thought that was probably true; he only saw most of these people once a year, and his family was actually connected to them. It spoke volumes about what a nice guy Sam was, he realized, to be willing to sacrifice Saturday night with Brittany to bow ties, hair gel, potential icy run-ins with the Warblers, and doing more hand-shaking than anyone could do all year, all in a couple of hours. It made Blaine feel the need to repeat himself. "I really appreciate this, Sam. I don't think I could do it alone. I don't know why."

"Yeah," said Sam, but it was sympathetic. "It's fine. You can owe me."

"I'll owe you," Blaine agreed, and pumped Sam's hand playfully before letting it go.

"You shook on it!"

"I shook on it. Let's fortify ourselves with punch and dive back in, shall we?"

The library was mostly more of the same – a few of Blaine's ex-teachers from Dalton were in there, though, and wanted more detail about what he was studying and what his college plans were, and as the conversations focused on Blaine and his punch gulped away, Sam's attention span visibly waned. He gazed around the room until Blaine pulled him back to attention with a hand subtly tugging at his elbow. At one point he wandered towards a shelf and started browsing its contents, eyes thoughtfully tracing book titles, and at another, he spun the globe that decorated the corner, amusing himself like a kid by stopping it with his finger and peering to see where he'd picked.

He just accepted it as Blaine lead him by the elbow across the hall and into the dining room, simply asking, "Why not?" when Blaine asked him not to play with random things.

"Just – after this, we'll grab a couple of plates and find someplace to sit."

Sam responded, "I can't believe this is your house."

"Well. It looks bigger than it is right now since so many people are in it. Normally there's more furniture."

"Who has a fancy globe like that, though? Besides Copernicus?"

"It's not that fancy," Blaine said, laughing helplessly at Sam's lopsided phrasing that indicated that Copernicus was alive and well and fancy with his globe from Pier 1.

"It's pretty dang fancy," Sam insisted.

"Blaine, darling! Is it really you?"

"Hi, Mrs. Haverbrook! It's so good to see you!" said Blaine, probably too enthusiastically. Mrs. Haverbrook, the wife of the founder of the School for the Deaf in Dayton, was one of his mother's friends, with two older Dalton alumni for sons and so many pearl necklaces on that she rattled lightly as they clasped hands in greeting.

"Why, you haven't grown an inch, have you?"

"No, ma'am. Just a quarter of an inch."

"One of these days, you'll shoot up and be tall like your brother, won't you?"

"If I had my way, yes, I would. I wish I was a little bit taller. I wish I was a baller."

Sam's face twitched into a smile. Blaine elbowed him gamely.

"I just miss you singing with those Warblers so much," said Mrs. Haverbrook, grieved. "You may not be the tallest, but you're so talented. It just makes you even more special."

"Oh, that's so very sweet of you. I will always treasure the time I spent as a Warbler," said Blaine. "Mrs. Haverbrook, may I introduce you to my friend Sam Evans? He's in New Directions with me now, at McKinley."

"Oh. Why, hello," said Mrs. Haverbrook, only just seeing Sam as Blaine urged him a step forward with a hand on his back. "Lovely to meet you..."

"Sam," Blaine repeated. Sam offered a hand, and Mrs. Haverbrook placed hers in it delicately, allowing Sam to give it a stilted shake.

"Sam."

"Sam is the vice president of the senior class and was part of the glee club that won Nationals last year," said Blaine.

"How wonderful! Why, you must be very happy, boys."

"Yep," said Sam.

"That's just wonderful," Mrs. Haverbrook repeated. "Wonderful. Good for you two. Betsy! Come look who I found!"

The Rotary Club all seemed to come fawn over Blaine at once. Sam was re-introduced, given a delicate glass of cider by one of the younger Clarington ladies, bent down at the waist to try and hear one of the older ladies' questions about whether he liked McKinley, told them he was six feet even, and slayed them all with one crooked smile. Blaine had been pretty sure that would happen. It was an instantly endearing feature, and strangely, he'd been dependent on it like a shield he knew he could trust to withstand any amount of battering.

"You are just scrumptious," said the Clarington, taking Sam's empty glass from him and magicking a full one into his hand. She wasn't middle-aged, but she still probably qualified as a cougar in comparison. "Blaine, where do you find these boys of yours?"

"Oh, well – school, mostly," faltered Blaine.

"Schoolboys," she commented lasciviously. "So fresh and eager. Don't you just love them?"

"Now, ladies, there's something to be said for twenty-somethings."

Cooper's arm was suddenly around Blaine's shoulders, and he smiled robotically, not knowing whether to be relieved or irritated that Cooper had detected attention being given and arrived to soak it up.

"There's always something to be said for you, Cooper," tittered one woman.

"Lisa, you're very naughty. I love it. Not as naughty as you, Rebecca." Blaine got squeezed, then, half bear-hugged, and pushed away. "Get outta here, you two! Go find somewhere quiet, huh?"

Blaine, who had barely kept from stumbling, took the cue.

"Ladies," he said, "it was wonderful to see you. Thank you. Thank you for your well-wishes."

"Nice to meet you," Sam said, and either saluted or waved.

"Go find a dark, Rebecca-free corner," said Cooper. "Crazy kids."

"I'm not a kid," muttered Blaine resentfully once they were well inside the warm kitchen. There were a couple of caterers who spared them a glance. "God, what is his problem?"

"Whatever," said Sam dismissively. "Can we get food now? I'm kinda starving."

"Yeah. Yeah, absolutely. You've earned it," agreed Blaine.

Sam rubbed his hands together eagerly, then stretched an arm out to right the wrong of Cooper's hug, just draping it lightly and tugging Blaine towards the kitchen doorway, where there were stacks of small plates. Sam took two, and Blaine didn't even bother to urge him not to. Heck, if Sam wanted to balance a third on his head, that would've been fine with him. They'd gotten through the part of the party he'd been cold-sweat dreading: the part where everyone asked him about what he was doing and judged him by his answers and the unfortunate absence of the boyfriend he'd introduced them all to last year. His parents' parties always got looser and looser as the night wore on and everyone's blood alcohol level ticked up. Then the people who had only dropped by for an hour or so to be polite would leave, there would be more room, and sometimes impromptu sing-alongs or charades or Pictionary, which was always slightly bawdy. Men smoked quietly in the library, soaking the place in various tobacco smells that Blaine always associated with holidays. The worst was over.

He silently followed Sam from table to table, picking up finger foods and hors d'ouvres and fruit, not sure whether he felt empty because he was hungry or because he was just drained after all the scrutiny. He accepted a mug of egg nog from a woman in the standard black bow tie and vest, and Sam did the same, albeit with a wary eye. Egg nog could be an acquired taste, and Blaine had no idea if Sam had that taste.

"Let's go sit in the coat room," he suggested.

"What if someone's making out in there?" Sam asked.

Blaine choked back laughter. "Who? Mrs. Haverbrook and Sebastian Smythe?"

"Ew," Sam answered, lips quirking on one side. "No! Haverbrook was totally into you."

"Okay, ew," Blaine shot back.

"I just wish you were an eensy bit taller... then I could marry you," Sam sang, in a startlingly accurate impression of Mrs. Haverbrook's mournful but heartfelt manner of speaking.

"Just another three-quarters of an inch and you'll be so, so special to me," Blaine crooned, getting a laugh out of Sam.

"Oh, Blaine! One of these days, we will be together!"

"Oh, Blaine, you must be sooo happy you tanked at Sectionals."

"Oh, Blaine! I just know you'll be a baller!"

A fierce bubble of laughter worked its way out of Blaine's chest. He was strangely grateful Sam had a familiarity with Skee-Lo as well as Cee Lo.

"I'm spilling egg nog and it's your fault," he wheezed.

"Oh, Blaine! That only makes you even more special!"

"Oh my God! Quit it, dummy. It's all over my sweater, ugh."

The coat room was actually the sitting room, a small parlor in the very front of the house where much of the furniture that had been moved for the party was stacked. Two racks stuffed full of coats stood in much of the empty space, but Blaine slid past them and Sam followed, and when Blaine simply sat on the floor and crossed his legs, Sam followed without complaint.

"It's kinda dark in here," noted Sam. He wasn't wrong. Most of the light was shining in from the foyer, and the rest was simply coming through the windows, just moonlight and white Christmas lights around the perimeters of them.

"Can you see to eat?" Blaine asked, sliding his soiled v-neck sweatervest up over his head carefully.

"Yeah. Don't worry. And I'll watch out for Warbler-on-Rotary Club action."

"You're gross," laughed Blaine, but it was fond laughter, and Sam tucked in, so he turned his attention to his plate, too. They could hear a big band rendition of "Silver Bells" piped through the house, but there weren't any speakers in the coat room, and the two racks full of thick coats and jackets seemed to have a muffling effect, leaving them in a little pocket of calm and quiet. Blaine picked slowly at his plate. Food was kind of uninspiring to him as of late. He didn't feel in the mood for any of it.

"I've never had egg nog," Sam spoke up, squinting one eye closed like Popeye as he sniffed his mug, then took a tiny sip.

"It's good," Blaine told him. "But ours is usually pretty alcoholic."

Sam hummed, monotone, and took another taste.

"Well?" Blaine asked. He wasn't sure why he was interested, but Sam was still sort of a mystery, still sort of all over the place.

"Pretty good. It's sweet. But then after I swallow I can taste the rum."

"Wait," said Blaine, as it occurred to him. "How many drinks have you had tonight?"

"This's the... fourth? I had punch and cider."

"Are you good?"

"Yeah, awesome."

Blaine picked up his egg nog. He hadn't had more than a couple sips of punch before abandoning his cup on the credenza. He needed to feel awesome.

One mug later, he was a much happier Blaine. A much warmer Blaine, too, and he sort of felt like swing dancing, which was categorically way more awesome than being nog-drenched and angsty.

"Hey, so, you're, like... my best friend," he told Sam, fumbling with the heavy statement even though he felt it imperative to share.

"You talkin' to me?" Sam asked, seeming legitimately unsure even though Blaine suspected he had to be doing a DeNiro impression.

"Of course. You're the only one in here."

"Oh. Cool."

There was a pause, but Blaine did not feel like waiting for too long.

"Am I your best friend?" he asked, forthright.

Sam snorted. "I dunno, dude. I don't know if my best friend would make me gel my hair. There's nothing wrong with my hair the way it is. It's perfect – it's really good hair –"

"Look, I agree, Sam," Blaine interrupted loudly. "I agree! You have awesome hair. I'm so jealous. You are my best friend and you have great sexy blond hair and you're like the Betty to my Veronica. That's why I invited you instead of... Tina or whoever, I don't know. I don't really have any other friends. Thank you for gelling for me, Sam, it's – you're just the best. You pass my inspection. Totally."

"... Why am I Betty??"

"You're blond and you like sports? Veronica is a brunette and a cheerleader. I'm clearly Veronica."

"I mean, why are we girls? I thought we were Wolverine and Cyclops. What happened to that?"

"I don't know." Blaine reached out and pushed Sam's temple. He got a poke in the ribs back and giggled (which was sad but true), pulling his arm back for a split second in defense before reaching out to wreck Sam's neatly styled hair, splitting it into floppy shards full of product.

"Hey, my sexy hair! Dude, you ruined it!"

Sam grabbed inarticulately at his arm, and Blaine wound up in a headlock, his hair getting attacked and scrunched. Being a younger brother, it wasn't an entirely unfamiliar sensation, but Sam wasn't digging his knuckles into Blaine's skull in an unforgiving noogie – he was just messing Blaine's hair up, digging curls free. Blaine blindly reached up, trying to push Sam's face, huffing in amusement when Sam tried to crane away.

"You're gonna pay, bub," Sam growled.

"You – are the one who will – pay," Blaine puffed breathlessly. His fingers caught one side of a bow tie and he tugged it unthinkingly.

"Aw, c'mon, you're the one who wanted me to wear that!"

They were interrupted by the light coming on, a low murmur, and a giggle that definitely did not come from Blaine. With the egg nog making his veins pulse with warmth, Blaine just sort of went limp, and Sam froze. A few seconds later one of the coat racks was bumped, and the woman tittered again. Someone hit the wall, then, and Blaine heard the definite sound of mouth-on-mouth before he heard Cooper say loudly, "Oh, _oops_! This room's taken, I see. Sorry, guys. I didn't realize this was your dark corner. But kudos. It is dark in here. C'mon, Rebecca, let's try your car. I don't think there'll be anybody in there. I'll do the Free Credit Rating Today jingle for you, too..."

"He left the lights on," Blaine said after a moment.

Sam patted him and sat back, leaving Blaine slumped, cheek on his thigh.

Cooper popped back up. "Oh, and – blondie. What's your name?"

"Sam Evans," Sam responded eagerly. "I took your master class last year in glee and you told me to keep working on my George W. Bush impression."

"I knew it. I never forget a face," said Cooper. "Great comedic instincts, Sam. Great attitude. Keep on trying. But on a purely big brotherly note, I'm here to tell you, you better be good to my little brother. He's not the best at expressing himself without Katy Perry's help, but he's learning, and, well... he seems to really like you. I feel fairly comfortable telling you that since his head is in your lap."

Blaine sat up immediately, twisting to shoot a glare at Cooper, who just winked at him, subtle as a cement truck.

"Okay. I'm good. I mean, I will be," said Sam, and Blaine wrenched himself almost all the way around to try and plead with Sam psychically to stop talking. He almost jumped. Sam looked like an absolute mess. His face was red, his hair was sticking up, his bowtie was hanging open, and – oh my God, Blaine was just realizing what this looked like.

"Enjoy," said Cooper, and flipped off the light again. It seemed way darker than it had before, with eyes that had just adjusted to the light. Blaine was all too aware of his sweater crumpled up inside-out next to them, the way he'd lead Sam everywhere by the elbow and fussed over his clothes, and the fact that not one single person had asked him about Kurt.

"He thinks you're my boyfriend," blurted Blaine. "This whole entire party – everyone we talked to and probably everyone else, too – thinks you're my boyfriend. I'm – mortified. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean for that to happen. I mean, I don't have designs on you, Sam!"

"I know that," Sam said. "I'm your friend, dude. And I don't care what a bunch of people I don't know think."

"I know you don't care," said Blaine, misery lapping at him nevertheless. He slumped against the wall dramatically.

"Then what's the problem? Are you ashamed people think you're with me?"

It was a flat question, with no sting behind it, but it bit at Blaine's pride anyway. Sam really was Betty, and he, Blaine, really was Veronica: a snob.

"No!" he said quickly. "No. Of course not."

"Then who cares," said Sam, "what Cooper thinks? Or any of them?"

Blaine twisted his fingers together in his lap. "It's just that my whole life, every year, I've had to impress these people with how well my life is going and how happy I am. But I'm not happy and my life isn't going so great so it's like I'm just lying to them all, and I can't turn that feeling like I'm failing and losing everything off. How can I just flip a switch and suddenly not care what impression they take away?"

"I did lose everything. Almost everything, besides some clothes. We lost our house and had to sell everything we could just to keep a roof over our heads. When things get that dire, everything else seems so... what's the word? It starts with 'f?'"

"Frivolous?"

"Frivolous!"

"This party probably seems like the epitome of frivolity to you," said Blaine.

"Whatever that means," replied Sam. "You're still my bro. And there's food, so."

"I'm not trying to sound ungrateful about my life."

"You don't. I get it. This party's hard for you."

"Yes. Poor me," said Blaine sardonically. "Having to attend a lavish Christmas party."

"It doesn't mean anything that it's lavish. You're being forced to share more of yourself than you're comfortable with right now. Like I said, I get it. More than just stuff, replaceable stuff, I lost my privacy when everyone found out I was homeless..." Sam paused for a second, and Blaine glanced over to see him staring at the Christmas lights through the window like he was seeing some other world through it. He kept on, sort of stoically, "Where I was living. And later, what I was doing to help make ends meet."

"Stripping?"

"Yeah, stripping. It's not that I'm ashamed of it, but it wasn't supposed to be something everyone knew about. But it got around anyway and I just had to face it all and own it, no matter how embarrassing it was. Numb up, grow thick skin, realize it's not the end of the world, and go on."

"I see," Blaine said awkwardly. "Is that why you took your clothes off during the debate? To prove Coach Sylvester couldn't say that was some kind of scandal or something you should be ashamed of?"

"Yeah. Well, that and I couldn't answer any questions as good as Artie. I got kinda overwhelmed or something, so it just happened."

Blaine's mind shot uncontrollably to Eli. He heard Sam's words in his head: _go on_.

"For the record, I'm..." He sighed. "I'm sorry. You probably know I've never been exactly supportive of those choices you made."

"Forget it," Sam said briskly.

"No. I've gotten to know you more and I know you're a good guy, Sam. Even if your clothes wind up on the floor, I know your heart's in the right place."

"Well, so is yours, now. So do what I did. Forgive yourself for the bad times. Learn from them. Decide to be happy. Go after what you want. That's all you can do. Look, it's – just like tying a bow tie. It's hard at first, and then eventually you master it, and then you don't even think about it anymore."

Blaine's eyelids dropped, and he gave an amused little huff. In his previous life, the one where he'd shared a Swiss chalet with Kurt, he never would've been able to imagine finding a sense of comfort or belonging with anyone else. He would never have imagined hiding out in the coat room instead of being the centerpiece of the party, tinkling the ivories. He needed to get over it, move on, and work as hard as he could to fix his friendship with Kurt. But something told him that even if he lost it totally, he could reach out and find Sam waiting there to be his friend. Maybe he could find it within himself to go play a couple of songs, actually. And maybe Sam would take the tenor part.

"Yeah... okay. That worked out really well," he admitted, elbowing Sam. "You using my own words against me. Smart."

Sam looked at him for a moment, then pushed the heel of his hand against Blaine's head and rested a comforting arm on his shoulders.

"I couldn't think of any of Sean Connery's."

Blaine smiled.


End file.
